Gravitation
by DamnI'mRandom
Summary: A short and sweet, well, ficlet, about our favourite Baker Street boys! Sassy!everyone, pretty much. Slash-ish. Johnlock, obviously.


**Disclaimer:** I own, sadly, nothing. As ever. All rights belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC.

x—x

_If you pull, then I push too deep_

_And I fall back into you._

_Cos you are the piece of me_

_I wish I didn't need._

_Chasing relentlessly_

_Still fight, and I don't know why._

- Clarity, by Zedd

Worming its way into every fibre of his being, the sweet poison spreads slowly, surely incapacitating him one cell at a time, making all his vital functions shut down, his lungs the slowest. He can't breathe, gasping for air like a fish out of water.

Give and take - they say the world is built on gives and takes. Then who is this oddity in front of him that just gives and gives and gives, without getting anything in return?

It must be God, he decides. Except there is no God.

_Yes, there is, and he's standing right in front of you_, his mind screams.

Awe and wonder are feelings he has previously reserved only for the dead. Or a particularly clever murderer, however perverted their minds may be. But he finds himself expressing these emotions at regular (well, regular for him) intervals now.

He doesn't like to be surprised. But here, he finds that he doesn't mind.

No, he definitely doesn't mind.

...

John Watson is what many call an enigma. A double-edged sword, he seems nice and cuddly from the surface, but underneath, a mind sharp enough to rip your self-control to shreds hibernates, revealing itself to only a few chosen individuals.

He has the capacity to surprise you at every turn, as Sherlock Holmes finds out frequently.

The man likes jam, tea, warm woolly jumpers and Doctor Who.

Sherlock likes science, murders (the grislier the better) and non-boring people, and detests jumpers of all kinds.

Two polar opposites, yet they get along like a house on fire.

Oh yes, when you combine an ex-Afghanistan army doctor and the world's only consulting detective, there is bound to be unpleasant friction, and Mrs Hudson (bless her) stands testimony to that.

She has woken up many mornings to the sound of Sherlock and John rowing fiercely about the tiniest of things. Just today -

'Sherlock, there are spleens in my jam! I want to eat jam and toast today, and this is the day I wake up to the fact that my flatmate has no regards for anyone's personal tastes AND I WANT A NEW JAR OF JAM!' That, obviously, is John, followed by a string of curses that should, with good reason, not be mentioned here.

Sherlock calmly answering with - 'The temperature for the spleens to react was perfect only in your jam, and no, I won't go get you another jar of jam. What, is jam essential for your survival? No? Then I suggest you stop your childish tantrum and just eat your toast like you usually do. Toasted for two minutes and a half, perfectly browned, with half a knife's edge full of butter. See? No fuss, and everyone's satisfied.'

John spluttering - 'You-you know how I like my bread.'

Sherlock rolling his eyes at John's idiocy - 'Yes, obviously. I have been living with you for the past three years. I know how you like your bread, your toast and that you are only satisfied when your water is exactly at room temperature, no warmer, no cooler. You prefer to wear the red-and-blue jumper that you wore on your first Christmas at Baker Street on a regular basis since it is cosier than the others, but your favourite is undoubtedly the oatmeal one. Your eyes go narrow when you are concentrating on something and your tongue sticks out of your mouth, and -'

He stops. His ears go a little red at this point.

John clears his throat inconspicuously and bends back towards his tea, flattered by his flatmate's observations. His anger is, by this point, nearly dissolved.

'Erm, either way, I'll just. Get the jam on my way back from work. Yeah.'

And so Peace is handed her realm back once more.

Every time, Mrs Hudson just wishes that they not be so thick-headed and just give in to their desire for each other. Alas, a futile hope.

...

8 p.m.

Footsteps pounding heavily on the stairs - _laden with shopping bags, extremely tiring day at work._

His throat constricts. John is in the doorway, his eyes half-open, the lids threatening to shut completely any minute now. It is a sight that makes his stomach swoop not unpleasantly.

'Sherlock,' John pants, 'Do you think you could get off your arse and help me out with this?'

He doesn't deign to respond. It's dull.

John just curses and sighs and then curses some more, but shuffles steadily towards the kitchen to dump the bags on the table.

But there's no space on the table, of course, since Sherlock's distillation equipment is taking up the entire surface.

The bags occupy most of the floor, then, leaving hardly any space to move about.

John bumbles about blindly, exhausted to the core, and settles down next to Sherlock on the sofa. Very close to him. No dinner, then? He'll regret this in the morning. Sherlock's eyebrows raise a fraction, but he remains silent.

'Are you not going to speak to anyone now? Decided to join the Silent Sisters, have we?' John's eyes droop.

Sherlock pretends not to hear. John sighs. Slowly, his head makes its progress from being straight to lying on Sherlock's lap. The latter pretends not to notice, but he cannot deny the effect it is having on him. Heat floods his face.

John starts to snore lightly. The sound ignites something in him, a long lost memory of his father doing the same, perhaps. He smiles slightly, then grins wider as the urge to stroke the hair of the sleeping man overcomes his usually-rational mind. So that's what he does. He also buries his nose in it as he finds that a most appealing scent is wafting from it.

Soft, warm, smelling of lavender - John's hair is a delight. And the man is deeply asleep, so there is no chance of him waking up anytime soon.

Sherlock twirls a few strands in his fingers, loving the way the light of the lamp makes its sheen stand out. Sherlock's long fingers soon become entangled in his hair, unable and unwilling to free themselves.

John begins to twist and turn a bit, and Sherlock fears that the doctor is waking up. But he just mumbles a few incoherent words and goes right back to sleep.

This peaceful sight, coupled with the comforting John-scent of tea, lavender and musk and his adorable snores, halts Sherlock's whirring mind and finally puts it to rest. He teeters on the brink of oblivion for a while, then gently drifts off to sleep.

The fact that they are sleeping together on the too-small couch, two 'platonic' flatmates, and that it's the most comfortable sleep they're experiencing in a long time, goes unnoticed in the inky black of the night.

They are pulled towards each other inexplicably, like two magnets, like a ball towards the earth, a side effect of gravity. _Attraction._

...

Morning dawns too bright, too early. John rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm and suddenly realises the precarious position he's in. Coiled up comfortably, head resting on Sherlock's chest and – _wait a minute._ Sherlock is sleeping? Now there's a sight to behold. His face vulnerable, child-like, serene in its veil of sleep. REM sleep, John notes, his eyeballs roving beneath their lids. His dark curls caress his forehead venerably.

John lightly touches his cheek, unfazed that he slept the whole night through on the couch with his flatmate. _Male_ flatmate. With whom he shares a _very platonic_ relationship. Ahem.

The feeling is… nice and he revels in it for a while longer, but snatches his hand away as soon as he hears Sherlock's fluttering sigh.

Sherlock's eyes snap open in an instant. His blue eyes piercingly bright, boring into his own, looking deep into his soul.

'Just how long have you been staring at me, Doctor Watson?' he asks in his low, delicious baritone, clearly amused.

He can feel himself blush, but he manages to keep his voice steady somehow.

'Good morning to you too, Sleeping Beauty.' He grins back.

'Yes. Yes, it is a good morning. Splendid, in fact.'

He tries to haul himself up on his elbows to get to the kitchen, but Sherlock's arm has snaked itself around his waist, reluctant to relinquish its grip.

'If you really have to get up, make me a cuppa too. I find myself in desperate need of one.'

John sighs.

Things are back to normal.

But that spark of attraction they felt in that moment blossoms inside him, warming him to his toes, pooling in his stomach like honey.

Instead of plain old replying, he repositions himself so that they are barely an inch apart.

Their lips touch for the briefest of moments, and an instant spark of _electricity,_ and John pulls away, hesitant.

Sherlock's eyes are closed, his expression close to what can only be described as pure, unadulterated _joy_.

As soon as they are open, however, his lips curve upward in an ecstatic smile.

'Yes, I was wondering how long it would be until we did that.'

'Okay?' Anxiety courses through him. He bites his lip hard, drawing blood.

'Oh yes, definitely okay.'

And his lips are captured once more, blood trickling down and all.

x—x

**Author's Note:** And the end was a The Fault in Our Stars reference! I am ENAMOURED with that book. :3


End file.
